


No one knows it's you

by AnxiousVillain



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Brendon is not the rapist, Castration, F/M, I am not writing Brendon as a rapist and I doubt I ever would, Implied former relationship between Brendon and OFC, Mentions of Rape, Minor Character Death, Murder, NOT Brendon, PTSD, Panic! at the Disco - Freeform, Revenge, Revenge against rapists, Sexual Violence, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Too weird to live too rare to die, Warnings May Change, implied rape, miss jackson, possible trigger warnings, sexual predators getting their comeuppance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5080813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiousVillain/pseuds/AnxiousVillain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's the angel of death. She spills the blood of those she feels deserve it, takes revenge against the demons that lurk in the shadows and prey upon the innocent. But the life of a killer is a lonely one; with every life she takes, she feels she is further from humanity, from the faded memories of when she had a name, an identity, a fiancee.  But although it is encased in stone, her heart still beats for someone.<br/>Oneshot, loosely inspired by Panic! At the Disco's 'Miss Jackson'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No one knows it's you

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is something I wrote a little while ago, talked myself into posting on Wattpad, got a lot of criticism that it was bad because I "didn't have enough Speech in it" and one person even sent me a delightful message saying that I needed to put clothing description in it, otherwise I couldn't set the scene. Needless to say, I took it down and gave up on Wattpad.  
> But, thanks to a very kind author on here, I was inspired to try posting on AO3, despite my nerves that I wouldn't fit in with the caliber of the authors on here.  
> This is loosely inspired by Panic! At the Disco's song "Miss Jackson", even though I know this isn't what Brendon wrote the song about. It's just some strange thing that came into my head when I was listening to that song, and so this poured out.  
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Very strongly implied rape, drugging and sexual violence (NOT on Brendon's part, no siree.) Murder, minor character death. This is NOT glorifying abuse or rape in any way, trust me. Basically, the OFC (Miss Jackson) deals out justice against piece-of-shit sexual predators.  
> Anyway, if you actually read this and don't think it's an atrocity, thanks and please comment, I would really appreciate feedback on how I can improve my writing!

The blood stains her fingertips, a red blotch against the ivory. She is still as the water streams over them, watching the scarlet colour slip from her skin and swirl down the drain. Another success, another night that she has slipped away from the scene, nothing but a shadow crossing the street, before she is gone.

They'll all hear of it, of course. His girlfriend- the poor, naive thing, she thinks with a saccharine smile- will turn up at his apartment. She'll see the blood as it soaks into the carpet, see the leer forever etched on his face. And she'll scream.

If she knew what he had been planning to do, she would scream louder. But the only person who knows is a woman that stole into the darkness like a ghost, leaving the slaughtered body of her victim cast aside like the scum he was.

Miss Jackson's life is not easy. Never permanent- always transitioning, moving from one place to another, slinking in the shadows like an alleycat. She barely remembers her real name any more- it is lost to a mist of others that have left her lips. Lies, but with a good cause.

Murder is a crime, a sin. She knows it. What is left of her family knows it, as well, and they lament for the _good little girl_ that they lost, that they have not seen in years. But as she thinks now, as she has always thought, letting them get away with it is more of a sin. Their behaviour is dismissed, applauded even. After all, _she was begging for it_ , _they couldn't help themselves_ , _she shouldn't have worn that_... Excuses, so many flimsy stitched-together excuses, that shouldn't work. But they do, of course.

Well, she has her own excuses.

_They were begging for it._

_She couldn't help herself._

_They shouldn't have done what they did in the first place._

How many men has she killed, now? She does not count. And of course she regrets it; every day, her soul is tortured with the thought that she has taken lives. But for every man she has killed, there are another hundred, another thousand, who still walk the earth free, the innocence they've claimed from women worn like trophies. And she will not rest until they _learn_.

The papers describe him as a good, kind, man. Of course they do. He had a girlfriend, a respectable job. No one comes forward about his life in bars, the pharmaceuticals he slipped into drinks, the girls he dragged back to hotels and slammed their heads against the headboards. Instead, they post a smiling photo of him, and paint his portrait with a brush dipped in lies. They whitewash the truth.

_He was last seen with a tall woman with blonde hair in Houston at one thirty am on Saturday the 24th..._

She can't do anything about the height, of course. But with some of the money she snatched from him, she travels, takes a train from Houston to Las Vegas- it is hours of sitting, watching the scenery blur past, but she does not mind.

In the bathroom of a cheap hotel, she dyes her hair in the sink. It's dark now, and possibly more sustainable as it is more common than blonde hair. The clothes covered with his blood were burned, of course, their remains left back in texas.

**

Miss Jackson is a woman of many faces. Last time, she was blonde, playing a more innocent part- an awkward walk, light and bubbly voice, giggles and fruity drink. Now, she struts into the bar with her head up, walk strong, face stony. She keeps her voice deeper and orders vodka, looking around.

She can sense the turmoil in the atmosphere, beyond the scent of cheap, heady liquor and lust that hangs in the air. While her face changes constantly, she is looking for the one that stays the same, no matter whose body it is planted on.

She sees him at a grimy table. Sandy, unkempt hair, wide eyes, too-thin frame. And she _knows_. She knows instinctively, because sometimes she feels she is no longer human, her senses finely attuned like that of some stealthy feline.

He's with a girl, who seems oblivious to the way he eyes her, like a candy to be unwrapped and consumed.

Miss Jackson tips the liquor down her throat. The burn no longer bothers her. Her stool scrapes the floor, and she struts past the table. She feigns indifference to their conversation, but her ears detect snatches of the conversation, snatches that are of great use to her. The girl is called Amy. She has a brother. Her ID card is tossed on the table from where she verified it with the waiter; Amanda King.

That's all Miss Jackson really needed to know, anyway.

She waits five, ten minutes, then rushes over, her face a picture of worry and confusion. The pair at the table look up, and she hides the flash of red, the repulsion she feels when she sees the way his hands are snaking closer to the girl's drink.

She lies. She says she is passing on a message, that there was a call at the bar for one Amy King – that her brother has been in an accident, and she must go to him at once.

The man is disgusting. Silky pleas spill from his lips like oil- that her brother will be fine, or should he go with her to comfort her, should they go back to his apartment now so the girl can rest...

Miss Jackson knows how to play the game. Crocodile tears spill as she tells the girl the sheer importance of this. And Amy's face crumples, and Jackson breathes a sigh of relief when she promises she will call the man and rushes off for a cab. Some people are harder to coax out of the picture than others- but this girl is innocent, sweet, and Jackson knows she will be alright.

The man looks like a toddler, with his toy snatched away from him. He will never get that call from Amy. Jackson knows it is sick, to upset the girl like that. She will rush home, find her brother is alright, be confused and scared. But it is better to end the evening like that than in a strange apartment, choking on bile and her own tears, her pride torn away from her and the remnants of a sadistic man's pleasure bubbling inside of her.

The man does not stay angry for long. Jackson comforts him for the loss of his date. And he sees the outside beauty, the glamours of the façade. His eyes go from angry to hungry, and he has a new dessert to dig into greedily now. Jackson flirts, the words tasting like ash on her mouth, because she can see into his soul, and it is disgusting. But she convinces him.

He orders her a drink. Another person would not notice. But she can detect the sharp odour straight away, all but masked by the heady burn of the ethanol. Of course he did, because he would do anything to make the night a "success".

She feigns a sip, her lips pressed into a thin line. He beams, the predator preparing his prey.

The moment he looks away, she spills the tainted drink over her shoulder, letting the contents splatter to the floor. No one notices, and she pulls off the false fatigue brilliantly.

Back in his apartment, he slams her to the floor. She remains limp, like a doll. She must wait.

He climbs over his, his thick breath on her neck. She puts up the act, feigns a struggle, moans and whimpers. But as his hands fumble up her dress, chest close to her, she acts quickly.

The blade spears his chest, a direct hit. Shock floods his twisted face and he stares at Miss Jackson, teeth ground together.

"You bitch!"

He slaps her, but she is used to the sting by now. She draws the blade, and his hand reaches to snatch it from her. But she is fast, her hand twists around, makes another hit...

By the time she is through, his blood has poured like rain to her chest, destroying yet another garment. She shrugs him off, lets him slump to the floor, the lingering traces of his lust and menace still evident on his face. As bitter poetic justice, she takes her weapon and uses it to sever _his_ weapon, the tool in which he inflicted so much damage to others, from his fading body. A scream hitches in his torn throat, but the fire has left his eyes before it erupts.

There is the usual moment of regret, loneliness, despair as she looks at another victim. Another person who she has robbed of life.

But she thinks of the girls he robbed of something less tangible but far more influential than life. He robbed them of their souls.

She climbs out the back door window, without leaving a mark.

**

Miss Jackson thinks about love, sometimes, on those long and painful journeys from one murder to the next, leaving the carnage of her last endeavour behind her.

She had love, once. She remembers it well. But she is no longer human, no longer capable of love. She traded her humanity the moment her knife fist made contact with a heart. The angel of death is not granted the luxury of love.

She had a name, a life, a family. Friends.

 _A fiancée_.

But she lost it all the moment a stranger cornered her behind the bar, the moment rough hands forced her to the ground. Because she knew, in that moment, something disconnected inside her. She had seen the way the universe turned, in favour of the bastards and liars, and she would do anything in her power to ensure that she could shift the balance. So she gave up her life, to become nothing but a shadow on the pavement and a blur in the newspapers.

**

She's in California, now. And what is left of her heart, buried in a tomb of stone and stolen lives, aches longingly as she passes through a town filled with memories. No one will recognise her here, now. They are looking for someone exponentially younger. She has hardened, grown, changed. Passing strangers on the street, no one picks out her face as the girl that disappeared. Do they miss her? Do they still love her?

Occasionally, she catches her old name, her _first_ name, in the papers. They speculate what happened to her.

Sometimes they link her with the suspected murderer crossing the continent. They wonder if she was murdered by _that woman_.

It makes her laugh, but the sound is bitter. They think she murdered herself.

In a way, that is almost true.

She has to leave, but something catches on her insides like a fishing hook. She is being called to a house, a house she knows all too well. But she is also being called to the next town, where she can sense an almost empty back alley, a predator stalking his prey, a place where she must intervene.

She decides to spare one hour. One hour is all she needs.

Miss Jackson has few possessions. But there is a trinket she has carried all this time, kept safe, ensured it does not touch the poisonous blood of those she kills.

It is time to return it to its rightful owner.

**

Breaking in is especially easy. And it is just as she remembered it, as if the past years have never happened. He slumbers peacefully, and despite the obvious changes- his hair, his build, no longer lanky but toned, the slight graze of stubble across his jaw- she recognises his face. And for the first time in centuries, she allows tears to fall, just this once. For the first time, she wonders if her departure took too much away from him.

The ring feels warm and heavy against her palm, moulded to her skin somehow. If she still has a heart, buried under layers of stone stained with the blood of her victims, it will break to lose this. But she needs him to know- she wants to give him one final sign. After all these years living as a phantom, she wants to be human just this once.

His skin is as soft as she always remembered it, curled into a childlike fist. Carefully, she plucks the fingers apart, like opening the petals of a flower. The ring flashes in the moonlight like a beacon as she slips it against his velvet palm, closing his hand once more.

He stirs. She tenses, springing away silently. He cannot see her, he must not see her, because if-

But as one leg hooks over the window and she prepares for her descent, the covers erupt behind her. She hears a yawn, deep and achingly familiar, and then an intake of breath.

In all these years, she has never been caught entering or exiting a building. Her willpower has never allowed it to happen. She wonders if now, subconsciously, she allowed it to happen.

"Who are you?"

She turns. Her face is silhouetted in the moonlight, pale and luminescent as a pearl. Of course he will not recognise her- it has been too long. He may not even remember her.

But somehow, impossibly, he does. His eyes, already so wide, grow larger, rounder, as they take her in.

"Emma?"

And she does a double take. It has been so long since she has worn that name that she had begun to forget it completely. Now, however, it feels like slipping into a fitted coat in the winter, comfortable and secure, embracing her.

But he knows her. And she can't allow that. She cannot be known- because if she is, then the death penalty is certain; there is too much blood on her hands. It may be soiled, rancid blood, but they would not care about that. She knows that is not the way the world works.

His hand reaches for the lamp- the same one he kept behind his bed in another life, she realises with crushing nostalgia- but she twitches, shakes her head.

"Am I dreaming...?" A hand goes to his hair, tugs it up viciously. A habit of his, and one that she never forgot, even in her darkest moments.

An easy answer, an escape, would be to tell him that he is, then to steal away. But for all the sins she has committed, all the lies she has spat, she cannot take lying to him.

"No." Her voice is controlled. She cannot show emotion.

"I thought you were dead, I thought-" he shakes his head. He is overwhelmed- she should not have come, should not have been lured here by temptation.

"No." She stares firmly at him. "I'm not dead." _But I'm not alive, either. Not really._

He still stares at her, like she is an angel, a saint performing a miracle. If only he knew, that she is the opposite.

"It's been so long... Have you come back?"

She shakes her head instantly. Of course not. She can't. "And I'm leaving again."

"Wait!" Before she can slip out the window as intended, he jerks towards her, and she can smell _him_ , his warmth and decadence, and it is better than she remembered.

"Don't leave again, please," he pleads. "I don't know... I don't know what happened. But after all this time, it's only ever been you."

It shouldn't be. He should move on. She doesn't understand why he has not, by now. It has been years.

"I waited for you to come back. I kept dreaming that you would." A sigh, deep and hollow. "I know it's been years, and things can't be like they were, but can't I talk to you, even if it's one last time? _Please_ , Emma, at least tell me where you went..."

And just for a moment, she wonders what would happen if gravity shifted. If she stayed, if she slipped back into the life she left behind so many years ago.

But that is impossible. He never moved on, by some bitter luck, and she wishes she knew why. She was not, _is_ not worth waiting for; not then, not now, not ever.

"I had important things to do." It is a pathetic answer, but it is all that she can give him. She can't bear to involve him in this situation any more than he already is.

"I thought," his eyes seem almost wet, in the dim light. "I thought you didn't love me, I thought you left because you changed your mind."

She was wrong. She does still have a heart because somehow, years later, a knife slashes into it at the memories of the event they planned. The white dress, wrapped in a garment bag in her wardrobe. The invitations sent to friends and family. The floral arrangements being prepared... And most of all his face, shining with euphoria, his voice in her ear whispering that it was just one week away.

The way he had dropped to his knees, now nothing but a faded film reel in her mind, and pledged his love to her.

"Don't think that way. I never wanted to leave you," she whispers, her voice cracked. "It's just the way things had to be."

His brow creases in a frown. "I don't understand why."

"Because the world is shit, Brendon." She smiles then, wryly, and meets his gaze. He is still in a state of shock, hesitant as if with one blink she will melt into the darkness, nothing but a hallucination. And her tongue tingles as it wraps around his name, a name she has not said aloud for a thousand lifetimes.

"So why did you come back, now?"

Her eyes flicker to his hand; he uncurls it, and the ring peers up at him, still as glittering as it was when it was new.

"When you gave this to me, you said it was a symbol, that it was a promise that you would always love me." Even now, the words are still branded into her brain, refusing to fade. "I wanted to give you the same promise."

"Even now-"

"Always."

Her lips graze his forehead, then down towards his eyelids; he shuts them for a moment, and she takes the opportunity. Brendon feels her warmth split from him, and opens his eyes to see nothing but a shadow on the windowpane, before she slides outside lightly, leaving him stunned, and confused.

**

Outside, Miss Jackson makes her way to her hotel room. In the cheap sink she scrubs away any tears that have dared to fall down, stares at the distraught reflection, then straightens up, her spine clicking into place, her head high. Tomorrow, she can sense a scene brewing in a back alley in which she must intervene. She readies herself, prepares the knife for its task. This is who she is now; this is what she does; she saves innocents by murdering the monsters who prey on them.

Brendon will not say anything; she already knows. She envisions him, lying awake, pressing the ring into his palm. No one else will know that for one night, Miss Jackson was off duty, that Emma rose from the dead.

But she feels a considerable emptiness without the ring, and a part of her intuitive mind knows; that maybe, in some time- whether it be a month, a year, three years- from now, she might feel some kind of magnetic pull once more. And maybe, his window will slip open, and for another minute a phantom will shed her cloak, and spare a minute moment with the one human that she still loves.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback would be appreciated, even if you hate this and think it was terrible- I'd still like to know, so I can improve my works.


End file.
